Testimony Date: 5 May 2025

Amira Mohammad Faiz Al-Franji (Shehto), 33, resident of Gaza – Al-Rimal Neighbourhood, currently forcibly displaced in Al-Sahaba Neighbourhood – Near Al-Sahaba Medical Complex.

I lived with my husband and children in an apartment on the fifth floor of Al-Sadiq Building in Al-Rimal neighbourhood, Gaza City. In November 2023, we were forcibly displaced to the south due to the war. We returned to Gaza in January 2025, after life in displacement became unbearable. We came back with no home to return to, so my husband, children, and I settled on the first floor of my mother’s house, which had been partially damaged by previous Israeli airstrikes. We tried to make it liveable again using tarpaulins and some basic furniture, hoping to start over.

My husband, Hamza Mahmoud Zuhdi Shehto, 37, was a kind and loving man who worked tirelessly to provide us with a dignified life. The day before he was killed, his mother asked to see him, saying she missed her son and grandchildren—especially the youngest, Omar, whom she hadn’t seen in a long time.

On the morning of Thursday, 24 April 2025, we all woke up, and I prepared breakfast. My daughter, Dima Hamza Shehto, 11 years old, helped me in the kitchen as she always did. She was a kind, intelligent girl who had memorised five Juz (parts) of the Qur’an and dreamed of becoming a doctor. My son, Mahmoud Hamza Shehto, 9 years old, had memorised seven Juz (parts) of the Qur’an and often helped his father. My youngest daughter, Lin Hamza Shehto, 6 years old, was full of energy and joy. And my baby, Omar Hamza Shehto, just 2 years old, was everyone’s favourite—the spirit of the home.

That morning, my mother asked me to accompany her to visit my ill grandmother in the Al-Sabra neighbourhood. I intended to take the children with me, but my husband’s mother wanted to see them, and Hamza preferred to take them along to visit her. Dima begged to come with me, but I asked her to stay. I told her, “You’re the eldest. Take care of your siblings.”

Hamza and the children left around 11 a.m. I kissed them and said goodbye. As they left, Hamza said cheerfully, “Today is our holiday.” It was the last time they left the house together. The last time I saw them alive.

At exactly 3:20 p.m., while I was still at my grandmother’s home, Israeli warplanes struck the fifth floor of Al-Sadiq Building on Al-Jalaa Street with three direct missiles. There was no warning—no alert, no sound—before the strike. Moments later, the news began to spread. People were talking about an attack on Al-Jalaa Street.

My sister called me, her voice trembling: “Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi raji’un… Hamza and the children have been martyred.”

I collapsed from the shock and lost consciousness. Then, I screamed nonstop: “My children… Where are my children?!”

I ran to the site. The building was completely destroyed. I couldn’t get close due to the rubble and the crowds. They told me the bodies had been transferred to Al-Shifa Hospital. I rushed there and went to the morgue. I saw white body bags on the floor. They offered to help me identify them, but I refused. I was determined to see them with my own eyes.

One by one, I opened the bags, my heart about to burst. I kept praying that they wouldn’t be inside.

The first bag—my husband Hamza. I recognised him from his back. The back of his head was completely torn apart.

The second—Dima. I saw a lock of her hair, her tiny ear with its earring, and the palm of her hand. Her body was utterly disfigured.

The third—they said it contained Lin’s remains, but I couldn’t recognise her. She was torn beyond recognition.

Mahmoud and Omar were still missing. I held onto a tiny shred of hope that maybe they had just been injured.

But the next day, small charred remains were found at the site—later confirmed to be theirs.
They were buried together in a single bag.

No features.

No goodbye.

Among the other martyrs were my father-in-law, Mahmoud Zuhdi Shehto, 63 years old; my mother-in-law, Roweida Ayada Abu Haseera, 58 years old; my sisters-in-law: Raghd, 17, and Nada, 35, a divorced mother who hosted her children every Thursday. Her children: Shahd Hashem Al-Saqqa, 16; Issam Hashem Al-Saqqa, 13; and Abdulrahman Hashem Al-Saqqa, 11.
My father-in-law also hosted a relative, Faraj Ali Faraj, 37, along with his daughters: Zaina, 13; Razan, 12; Lin, 11; Suad, 5; and Jouri, 2.

Also martyred was Mohammad Zuhdi Nizar Shehto, my husband’s nephew, 19 years old.

All of them… gone in a single moment, by missiles the world chose not to hear.

The only survivors of the massacre were Noha Mahmoud Zuhdi Shehto, Faraj’s wife and my husband’s sister, and her only child, Ali, 6 years old. She survived… only to witness the end.

Everything is gone. The home, the family, the laughter, the little stories…

Everything vanished beneath the rubble.

From that moment, everything changed. I suffered a severe psychological breakdown. I lost my ability to speak for days. I saw my children’s faces in every corner of the house. I couldn’t bear to enter the kitchen where Dima had helped me arrange things just that morning. Everything reminded me of them—their clothes, their toys, and their tiny shoes…

Today, I am a mother who lost all her children and her husband in one single moment. I still cannot comprehend what happened. There was no “military target” in that apartment. Just a simple father and four children visiting their grandmother.

By what logic is a home filled with civilians bombed without warning? By what right is an entire household wiped off the map in the blink of an eye?

The occupation didn’t just kill my family.

It killed me too—while I remained breathing.

Hamza used to say:
“The earth would not be enough to hold our grief.”

I used to hear those words and feel their weight, but I never imagined I would live them.
Now, I repeat them with him… Alone.